


saudade

by cruelzy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Implied Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 01:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelzy/pseuds/cruelzy
Summary: “Do I know any good stories?! I have lived nearly two thousand years. Iama story!"





	saudade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedarklings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarklings/gifts).

> _— portuguese: the bittersweet feeling of longing for or missing something or someone that you love and which or who is lost_

And he’s there, as expected, in the back of your mind, or in the corner of your eye, but such things can wait. 

The earth: blazing, broken, bitter underneath black clouds. You watch, unstirred. Life doesn’t quite attest to colour any longer—all that bleary-eyed wonder at the gospel of the universe flushed out of your skin like toxin, deserted with the sweat and the salt and the dead.

Thor sweeps you up, laughing. 

Wind beats against the solid of his muscle, pinking your eyes. Your legs are kicking, scrambling to latch and hold around the bulk of him, breath a wild, knocking thing in your throat as you bury the frigid tip of your nose into his neck. 

Gleefully incredulous and grinning: “Do I know any good stories?!” He smells like the storm, crisp and blue. “I have lived nearly two thousand years. I _am_ a story!”

Thor speaks.

He tells you stories of old, of great creatures who roamed in the dawn, tsunamis so mighty they blocked out the sun and tumbled mountains to crumbs. He tells of the parameters of gods’ blood—the constant itch and pound in his veins, behind his skull; of immortal blossoms in orchards untouched by death and the hearts of stars dying out like lights behind shutters, and the way your smile crinkles your eyes, warming him to the tips of his fingers. There are tales in the calluses of his palms, the lips trailing over your eyelids. He presses kisses slow and firm to the dip behind your ear.

“What is this?” You breathe. The emotions bubble to the surface of you and spill over in waterfalls. “What is this _really_?”

Nature is more scream than howl now: wide gaping mouth of sky, branches of yellow whipping across the dark. Where earth crumples dissonance collides into its arms, chipping away at your teeth, curving your chest inward like some terrible concave. Something is missing.

“I don’t understand.” You grasp at his face. “Where is it?”

The forest splinters, wood ripping away like paper around you, but his hands at your back are gentle, arching you into him. Lightning strikes just as you look up at the sky. And the emptiness, so _loud_. Creaking, dragging through the air—curls and grows and aches until it gnashes deafeningly silent, silent, _silent _in your chest_—_“_Where is the thunder__?_”

Thor only smiles, knowingly.

You wake up crying.


End file.
